I Was Going to Read This    

When the time was right.
When the refugees returned.
When the crisis abated.
When there was a space for reflection.

When the emperor penguin
fathers huddled in dark snow
beneath shearing, sky-
wide bands of blue and
red aurora lights,
sheltering their eggs,
keeping the species going,
cradling a flickering flame.

After knowledge became relevant again.
As soon as beauty had a proud
place in the world
I was going to
get around to it when
glaciers melted and seas rose
when the rapture turned out
to be a celestial prank and
lead bullets flew,
darkening the sky like clouds
of passenger pigeons.

Since it contained details
from my intimate life
I put it aside in a drawer
of cedar and smoke.
Since everyone I loved
would have been ruined and amazed
had word of it leaked out
I wrapped it in old newspapers
and jammed it under the porch
of the old farmhouse
where I never lived save in my youthful
terror of empty gnawing
winter nights when even
Robert Frost ran screaming
for the warm light of taverns
and the comforts of rum.